We weren't looking for a fight. If anything, we were hoping not to be noticed by anybody. The whole idea was to be sneaky, to get a good look at the old casino so we'd know what we're dealing with: the layout of the building, how many bandits are in there, how many guards they post and how alert they are. The last thing we needed was a piece of someone else's trouble. We got it anyway.
There were three of them, street-corner tough guys, cursing and laughing as they put the boots to a ragged older woman crawling on the sidewalk. The biggest one was obviously the man in charge; the other two treated him like a Boss. They kept calling him Ronny. A mugging? A rape? Both? Or was this just their idea of fun? We'll never know for sure.
Marv moved out ahead of the group, eyes wide and nostrils flared, so angry he was shaking a little. I had never seen him lose his temper before. “Hey!” he shouted. “HEY! You leave her alone!”
They lost interest in the lady and turned to face us. Ronny approached, strutting and twirling a bat, enjoying a chance to show off and put a scare into new prey. I moved to meet him. It was obvious Marv wasn't going to walk away until the woman was out of danger, but there was still a chance to avoid a fight if I could put a little fear into Ronny or get him to see reason. A little behind me, Bindi had her bow ready and an arrow nocked, pointed at the ground for now. Roland had casually drawn his big pistol and was holding it alongside his leg. Marv had one hand tucked in the pocket of his coat, where his gun was. If talking didn't work, they were ready.
Ronny and I stopped about three feet apart. He was a big guy, probably six-two, and solid. There were homemade tattoos on his knuckles and the backs of both his hands. He had a scruffy three-day beard that must have itched. He was grinning, showing off a mouthful of brown teeth.
“Why don't you leave the lady alone?” I said.
He told me to fuck off, loudly. He used a lot more words than that: insults, threats, and a whole lot of cursing. He seemed to know about twelve words, and six of them were “fuck”. He went on for a couple of minutes, blustering and posing, but all he really said was, “Fuck off or you're gonna get hurt.”
“Check the head count,” I told him. “Four of us and three of you. Leave her be.”
He snorted at me. “Four fucking punks,” he said. “Me and my boys eat punk-asses like you for breakfast.” He was still talking a lot louder than he needed to, playing to the audience. His two buddies were grinning along with him.
I gave it another try. “Everybody's got weapons,” I pointed out. “No matter how tough your boys are, they can't shake off bullets.”
He replied with more bluster, more cursing, more descriptions of what he and his boys were going to do to us. Usually, intimidating people comes pretty naturally for me. The trick is to convince whoever you're talking to that you're willing, even eager to hurt them, so all I have to do is drop the mask and show the real me. It wasn't working this time. Ronny just couldn't imagine a world that didn't feature him as the toughest thing in it. And I suppose he couldn't back down without losing face in front of his boys, maybe losing his position as king of his crappy little street corner. I'd tried being reasonable, going easy. It hadn't worked. If he insisted on being killed, I was ready to oblige.
I smiled at him like the whole situation was hilarious and drew my knives.
Ronny roared and swung his bat at my head. His boys rushed my companions. There were a series of loud pops, gunshots happening too close together to count. I kept my eyes on the bat, looking for an opening that would let me get a blade into his gut and open him up like he had a zipper. It never came. I had known from the look of him that Ronny was strong, but he was also a lot faster than I'd expected. His swings were wild, but there was no pause at all between them. If I wanted to get close enough to stab him, I would have to take at least one hit to do it. And the whole time he kept talking, insulting and threatening and cursing, cursing, cursing.
He didn't stop talking until a foot of arrow suddenly sprouted from his throat. He made a gargling sound and toppled to the ground. I looked around for other targets, but all the “boys” were down. I took stock of my companions. Roland holstered his gun and went to help the old lady, but she waved him off, moving away from us as fast as she could crawl. I walked toward Marv and Bindi. As I got close, Marv dropped his gun and plopped to the ground, pale and trembling all over. He hadn't been hurt – it was just shock. Bindi stood beside him, eyes maybe a shade too wide but otherwise looking fine.
“That'll teach him,” she said softly, “for being such a gutter-mouth.”
What they were feeling was normal, a mix of adrenaline crash and relief. I wanted to tell Marv that, but there wasn't any way to say it without talking down to him, making him look bad in front of a woman he seemed to be sweet on. There was something I could do for Bindi, though..
“Did you ever kill anyone before?” I asked her, trying to sound gentle. She shook her head.
I went back to Ronny through the smell of copper and burnt cordite. I was hoping for a last flicker of life I could twist out of him, but he was gone. I scooped up a handful of his blood and whispered, “You got off light.” Then I went back to Bindi.
I painted her face with Ronny's blood, a small stripe along each cheekbone and a third one down the bridge of her nose, the way my people had always celebrated a first victory, the way Hurgin had done it for me. She didn't flinch.
There were three of them, street-corner tough guys, cursing and laughing as they put the boots to a ragged older woman crawling on the sidewalk. The biggest one was obviously the man in charge; the other two treated him like a Boss. They kept calling him Ronny. A mugging? A rape? Both? Or was this just their idea of fun? We'll never know for sure.
Marv moved out ahead of the group, eyes wide and nostrils flared, so angry he was shaking a little. I had never seen him lose his temper before. “Hey!” he shouted. “HEY! You leave her alone!”
They lost interest in the lady and turned to face us. Ronny approached, strutting and twirling a bat, enjoying a chance to show off and put a scare into new prey. I moved to meet him. It was obvious Marv wasn't going to walk away until the woman was out of danger, but there was still a chance to avoid a fight if I could put a little fear into Ronny or get him to see reason. A little behind me, Bindi had her bow ready and an arrow nocked, pointed at the ground for now. Roland had casually drawn his big pistol and was holding it alongside his leg. Marv had one hand tucked in the pocket of his coat, where his gun was. If talking didn't work, they were ready.
Ronny and I stopped about three feet apart. He was a big guy, probably six-two, and solid. There were homemade tattoos on his knuckles and the backs of both his hands. He had a scruffy three-day beard that must have itched. He was grinning, showing off a mouthful of brown teeth.
“Why don't you leave the lady alone?” I said.
He told me to fuck off, loudly. He used a lot more words than that: insults, threats, and a whole lot of cursing. He seemed to know about twelve words, and six of them were “fuck”. He went on for a couple of minutes, blustering and posing, but all he really said was, “Fuck off or you're gonna get hurt.”
“Check the head count,” I told him. “Four of us and three of you. Leave her be.”
He snorted at me. “Four fucking punks,” he said. “Me and my boys eat punk-asses like you for breakfast.” He was still talking a lot louder than he needed to, playing to the audience. His two buddies were grinning along with him.
I gave it another try. “Everybody's got weapons,” I pointed out. “No matter how tough your boys are, they can't shake off bullets.”
He replied with more bluster, more cursing, more descriptions of what he and his boys were going to do to us. Usually, intimidating people comes pretty naturally for me. The trick is to convince whoever you're talking to that you're willing, even eager to hurt them, so all I have to do is drop the mask and show the real me. It wasn't working this time. Ronny just couldn't imagine a world that didn't feature him as the toughest thing in it. And I suppose he couldn't back down without losing face in front of his boys, maybe losing his position as king of his crappy little street corner. I'd tried being reasonable, going easy. It hadn't worked. If he insisted on being killed, I was ready to oblige.
I smiled at him like the whole situation was hilarious and drew my knives.
Ronny roared and swung his bat at my head. His boys rushed my companions. There were a series of loud pops, gunshots happening too close together to count. I kept my eyes on the bat, looking for an opening that would let me get a blade into his gut and open him up like he had a zipper. It never came. I had known from the look of him that Ronny was strong, but he was also a lot faster than I'd expected. His swings were wild, but there was no pause at all between them. If I wanted to get close enough to stab him, I would have to take at least one hit to do it. And the whole time he kept talking, insulting and threatening and cursing, cursing, cursing.
He didn't stop talking until a foot of arrow suddenly sprouted from his throat. He made a gargling sound and toppled to the ground. I looked around for other targets, but all the “boys” were down. I took stock of my companions. Roland holstered his gun and went to help the old lady, but she waved him off, moving away from us as fast as she could crawl. I walked toward Marv and Bindi. As I got close, Marv dropped his gun and plopped to the ground, pale and trembling all over. He hadn't been hurt – it was just shock. Bindi stood beside him, eyes maybe a shade too wide but otherwise looking fine.
“That'll teach him,” she said softly, “for being such a gutter-mouth.”
What they were feeling was normal, a mix of adrenaline crash and relief. I wanted to tell Marv that, but there wasn't any way to say it without talking down to him, making him look bad in front of a woman he seemed to be sweet on. There was something I could do for Bindi, though..
“Did you ever kill anyone before?” I asked her, trying to sound gentle. She shook her head.
I went back to Ronny through the smell of copper and burnt cordite. I was hoping for a last flicker of life I could twist out of him, but he was gone. I scooped up a handful of his blood and whispered, “You got off light.” Then I went back to Bindi.
I painted her face with Ronny's blood, a small stripe along each cheekbone and a third one down the bridge of her nose, the way my people had always celebrated a first victory, the way Hurgin had done it for me. She didn't flinch.
“Today,” I told her, “you are a warrior.”